


Crime D'Amour

by vanderloo



Series: Univers Alternatif [6]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types, Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris, Red Dragon - Thomas Harris
Genre: Canon Compliant, Dark Will Graham, Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Established Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Hannigram - Freeform, M/M, Murder Husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-18 05:09:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4693247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanderloo/pseuds/vanderloo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn't about dying. Will Graham wants to live, and he wants to live by Hannibal's side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crime D'Amour

**Author's Note:**

> **Works Title Translation:** Crime D'Amour - Love Crime (inspired by "Love Crime" by Siouxsie Sioux)

It isn't about dying. No, that's not what it's about at all. If someone were to ask Will Graham; "Do you want to die?", the answer would be no. Will doesn't want to die—not anymore. That might have been the case four years ago where he stood, knees weak and shaking, in Hannibal Lecter's kitchen staring both life and death in the face. Life in the form of Abigail Hobbs, and death in the shape of Hannibal Lecter. Will was a loaded gun, his grip steady, his eyes determined. But his mind was in turmoil and his heart was divided—he had to make the decision between what was right, and what _felt_ right. But the moment he had laid eyes on Abigail, he accepted his untimely fate.

Time did reverse, and the teacup that Hannibal shattered did gather itself together again. Abigail was alive—Abigail was Hannibal's gift to Will, and Will might as well have killed her himself; slit her throat with a fishing knife and watch the arterial spray decorate the walls. He was responsible for Abigail's murder, by proxy. Not Hannibal, no, because Hannibal was doing what he had to do. It wasn't about death, it was about life. And Will Graham had destroyed the chance of a life with Hannibal and Abigail because he had been so _foolish_. He had taken too long to pick a side, and this was his punishment.

Will remembers the distortion on Abigail's face—the panic flashing in her eyes—as the knife reopened the newly healed scar on her neck and drained the life from her fragile body. The sanguine fluid gushing from her wound sprayed Will in the face and doused his shirt with blood; it mingled with his own and made him feel light headed. He was losing a lot of blood; they both were. They were going to die, and Hannibal was going to kill them.

But he didn't die, and Hannibal didn't kill him. Will Graham was alive because Hannibal Lecter liked him that way. In hindsight, he should have known. He should have known Hannibal wouldn't kill him, because living with the guilt of Abigail's death hanging over his head like an insistent rain cloud was far worse than the peace death would offer. And Hannibal was clever enough to know that Will would go after him, once the time was right. Once he had healed and put together a boat motor that actually worked, then he would go after Hannibal. And he did. He did.

Will Graham forgave Hannibal for everything, because what else could he do? They couldn't survive separation, and they couldn't survive living with contempt towards one another. Sitting there, in front of the Primavera painting, Will Graham had never felt so alive. Not when he was killing Garrett Jacob Hobbs, not when he was killing and consuming Randall Tier. No, it was Hannibal Lecter's daunting yet alluring presence that ignited Will's gut and turned his resolve into dust. Hannibal had looked the same as he had that night in the kitchen, but different. His mannerisms were the same, but different. Will found himself thinking he'd missed Hannibal so much that he struggled to adjust to the other man's presence.

But then Mason Verger happened, an old mistake. Will should have gutted him when he had the chance. Will had been through so much, and had his mind torn in half—almost literally as well as metaphorically—and enough was enough. Hannibal had carried him home in his arms, sweater soaked in sweat and day old blood with nothing but a grimace on his face. Will doesn't remember much of it apart from the cold, crisp air on his face, like tiny knives on his skin just waiting for their chance to pierce him. Hannibal's arms had been warm and instinct took control of Will, allowing him to curl in on himself in the safety other man's arms and nuzzle closer to the warmth of another body. It was calm, and peaceful, and smelled faintly of cinnamon. Spicy, sharp, but with gentle undertones. Fitting.

Will woke up in his own bed, clothes changed and sheets stripped, feet wrapped in a blanket. Hannibal had laid him down and cared for him, changed his socks and shoes and clothes. Appreciation, Will felt, but it did nothing to mask the churning in his gut or the sweat on his brow. He had to end it all; he couldn't be with Hannibal any longer. But he couldn't bear to live in a world where Hannibal was gone, and he knew Hannibal felt the same. Thus, Will conducted a plan. He had to tear Hannibal's heart from him in order to save them both, and that was exactly what he did. Will could pinpoint the exact moment Hannibal's chest shattered, heart fragmented with every fragile breath that severed any emotional ties to Will that he held. Will had lied and had told him that he didn't want Hannibal anymore. And Hannibal had left, leaving Will alone. Solitude hit him harder than anything—the realization that he was alone, had no one, nothing, not even the pitter-patter of paws on the floorboards. Without Hannibal, Will was an empty shell of a man, an empty shell of what he could be.

But then Hannibal turned himself in, just like Will suspected he would. Hannibal would be exactly where Will knew he would be, and exactly where Will could find him. It was comforting, then, but Will couldn't live that way. He had to move on, he had to _try._

Then came Molly, oh sweet Molly. How she hadn't deserved anything Will Graham thrust upon her. He had known it was coming, one day or another. It took three years for Jack Crawford's jeep to appear at the bottom of their driveway, and Will Graham had never been more relieved to see an FBI agent. Jack needed his help, that much was clear, but it meant leaving behind his facade of a life and his new family. Molly was sweet, clever, and undeniably beautiful, and she had chosen to be with Will. He had left out the more violent sections of his past, decidedly leaving the intimacy of he and Hannibal Lecter's relationship to the imagination. Because no one had to know, and no one had the right to know. He and Hannibal's business remained private—a shared secret between the two men. He hadn't laid eyes on Hannibal in three years, at least, not in person. But he had the internet to keep himself updated—sneaking around at night to read the letters Hannibal had sent him from prison, going behind Molly's back to internet search the other man and read up on Freddie Lounds' Tattler.

She called them “murder husbands”. After running off to Europe together, Will only had himself to blame. But, of course, it opened a new door in Will's mind that he was hesitant to step through, hand gripping the doorknob so tightly his knuckles turned white. Husbands; the word conjured up nothing but romantic connotations. There was nothing platonic about marriage, but he and Hannibal hadn't been married, and they never would be. They weren't in love, and people who got married were in love, weren't they? Will thought he loved Molly, he did, but he would only find out that he was lying to himself. In their own twisted way, Will had married Hannibal long ago.

And Hannibal was right: Will had no obligation to Molly. Selecting a wife who already had a child to a past failed marriage wasn't coincidence, it was tactical. No need to stay with her, to stay with them if something else came along. Will guessed he knew that Hannibal would eventually pry his way back into his heart. Shadows had settled on the places Hannibal had left broken in his mind, empty and scarred, but seeing him again put a lot of things into perspective for Will. He could breathe again; it felt like he hadn't been able to since the day Hannibal had turned himself in. Hannibal smelled him coming, and Will had worn the aftershave intentionally. Old habits die hard, and evidently Hannibal was still able to identify Will from yards away. Hannibal wasn't bitter, no, Hannibal seemed...sad. Dismayed, distant. It did not make Will feel triumphant. He had to look around himself three times to ensure that Hannibal hadn't followed him out of prison. The hold the cannibal had on Will was frightening, but exhilarating, and Will felt himself tear at the seams.

Then Hannibal had sent Dolarhyde to murder Molly and Walter, and things became _real_. Whilst Will danced around him, Hannibal was crossing his fingers behind his back and plotting to get rid of Will's family. Hannibal didn't want Will to have anything in his life that wasn't him. Fury, blinding white-hot rage fueled Will as he confronted Lecter, ready to raise Hell and send Hannibal back where he came from. _Save yourself, kill them all._ Will would remember that, he would. A time would come where he would have to save himself, and he would kill anyone in his way. He was driven into a frenzy of cruel words and spit, but Hannibal had stood and taken it, watching him from behind the glass. If it hadn't been there, Will would have had his hands wound tightly around the cannibal's neck, choking the life out of him. It would be intimate, and Will would enjoy it.

But in reality, he did nothing. He couldn't do anything; he felt his anger fizzle out of him in waves upon seeing Hannibal. He understood the desperation hidden in Hannibal's eyes—he ached for Will, for the companionship they once had. Will felt it, too, and he couldn't be angry any longer. Molly had been shot, and instead of staying by her side, Will had gone to Hannibal. It spoke lengths about where Will's heart truly laid, but he denied it. He intended to deny himself until the end.

But then Will had visited Bedelia Du Maurier, and she had opened a door for Will that he didn't know was possible. No, she hadn't just opened it, she had removed the door from its hinges and forced Will inside. He couldn't help it, he had to _know_ , he had his suspicions, but he had to _know_.

“Is Hannibal,” he asked, struggling, wrapping his tongue around the words with precision, “in love with me?”

The look on Bedelia's face confirmed it all, she hadn't even needed to respond. And she probably knew it, too, but she did, and she watched as Will's face conveyed an abundance of emotion. “Could he feel a stab of hunger for you, and find nourishment in the very sight of you? Yes.”

Will closed his eyes and attempted to escape, to wade into the quiet of the stream. But the current was too strong and he was swept away by the waves. Dark liquid filled the room and swept everything in its path, destructive and untameable like the sea, like Hannibal. No, not just Hannibal, but Hannibal and Will together. It was what Hannibal wanted—what Hannibal had wanted since the beginning—to be with Will. But now, now hearing it confirmed by Bedelia, that Hannibal was in love with Will put his actions under an entirely new light. He had attempted to murder Molly and Walter out of, presumably, jealousy.

“But do _you_ ache for him?” The million dollar question, and Will wasn't sure he could dignify it with a response.

The irremediable situation he found himself in proved difficult for Will Graham to process. They had to catch the Dragon, and they couldn't do it without losing someone. Losing two people, perhaps. But that would come soon, not now. Once he had Jack Crawford on his side, regretfully so, he had to get Hannibal on the same page. So he flirted, or he tried to, he even said please, pretty please with a carcass on top. He got close to Hannibal and used Hannibal's feelings towards him as leverage, as blackmail, and used them to get the cannibal to listen to him. This was it. This was where it would end.

It went to plan. It always did. Hannibal was free and he and Will drove together to the chosen location. The location where Dolarhyde would kill Hannibal and Will would watch, or so he thought. Will was curious to see what would happen. But when the bullet collided with the wine bottle in Hannibal's hand, shooting a hole into his gut, Will Graham's eyes were opened. He felt the pain of the wound himself, hand shaking around his wine glass as he watched Hannibal crumble to the ground. Will didn't move, he did as Dolarhyde asked. No doubt the Dragon would catch him if he tried—he did, after all, throw Will up against an elevator as if he were as light as paper.

Will didn't see it coming. A miscalculation, and then there was a blade in his cheek, slicing through his skin in agony. His feet left the ground, body wound in the Dragon's deadly embrace. He was thrown outside, Hannibal still on the floor inside, a bullet in him. If Will had been faster, he could have shot Dolarhyde and perhaps saved his face, but that would've lacked intimacy. This required intimacy, and Hannibal Lecter understood that. This was not only Will's becoming, it was _their_ becoming. Together.

Will ripped the blade from his face and plunged it into Dolarhyde's thigh. It gave him seconds to react as the Dragon pulled out the blade, but he couldn't do anything, frozen in pain. The Dragon used it to his advantage and stabbed Will in the shoulder with intent to drag it along his chest. Will braced himself for it, but it never came. Hannibal was on the Dragon's back, saving Will's life and being thrown onto the ground in response. Dolarhyde advanced towards Hannibal, hand around his neck and lifting him from his feet, strangling him. Will saw it from where he was perched on the ground, heaving in shaking breaths. Something snapped within him—he began to see clearer and clearer, he _understood._ He felt Dolarhyde's hand around his own neck, suffocating him and choking the life out of him, and he saw the grimace on Hannibal's face. Save him. Let the Dragon kill him. Save him. Let the Dragon kill him. _Save him._

Save him. And Will did, pushing forward and leaving a trail of blood, stabbing Dolarhyde in the back until he released his hold on Hannibal. Will saw red, and it wasn't just the blood dripping down his brow and into his eyes, no. The audacity that Dolarhyde would try to kill Hannibal heated Will to his very core, because, no, _no one_ touches Hannibal. Hannibal is _his_. Hannibal has always been _his_. His paddle, his soft place to land. His. _His_.

Hannibal read it on Will's face, panting and struggling to stay upright, but he read it. Loud and clear; he saw how entangled Will was in his web. He saw how possessive Will had become. There was a moment shared between them—meters apart, the Dragon standing before them—where they looked at each other and Will knew. He knew what they had to do—he knew what he _wanted_ to do.

Together they take down the Dragon. Will Graham has never felt so alive.

Hannibal Lecter makes Will Graham feel alive, regardless of circumstance. Hannibal's very presence would be enough to make Will crumble to his knees. And he _loves_ it. He loves it, just like Hannibal loves him. No, Hannibal is _in love_ with him, and Will...

Looking across at Hannibal, the slain body of the Dragon between them, Will thinks that, yeah, maybe— maybe he's in love with Hannibal too.

“It really does look black in the moonlight,” He says, and it does. His hands are tinted black, dripping and sticky with a thick liquid. He basks in it, allowing it to nourish him. He loves it. He absorbs it, bathes in it. He has killed, no, they _both_ have killed, and they did it together. This is how it is meant to be. Automatically, because it just feels so natural to do so, he reaches out to Hannibal with one bloodied hand.

Hannibal doesn't hesitate and takes Will's hand firmly, hauling him to his feet. Will stumbles, a pain shooting up his side and along his neck, a trail of fire running down his cheek and under his collar. He's dripping in sweat, and probably blood, but Hannibal looks just as bad as he feels. Will grips onto Hannibal for balance, and because he wants to. He aches for the contact, he aches for the touch he's denied himself for three years. Because touching Hannibal is nothing like touching Molly—it is electrifying, and frightening, and arousing and everything that Will thought it would be. Perhaps better, but he can't think straight. All he can think is _Hannibal, Hannibal, Hannibal._

“See,” Hannibal says, voice near a whisper as he struggles through his pain. _See? You see?_ “This is all I ever wanted for you, Will. For both of us.”

Hannibal looks at the ground as he speaks, Will gripping onto him to keep himself upright. Will is panting, heaving, struggling for breath. Struggling for realization to hit him, or guilt, or regret, perhaps all three. But they never come, and nothing but joy fuels his stomach, tingling all over his broken body. Hannibal is right there in front of him, holding him as they stumble together. This, Will thinks, this is where he belongs, wrapped in the other man's embrace. Perhaps covered in blood and sweat could be left out for next time, or perhaps not, because it seems to fit them.

Will manages a laugh, a small bubble of air coming out of his throat when Hannibal meets his eyes. The other man looks so unsure, perhaps frightened, as if readying himself for another rejection. Hannibal turned himself in because Will rejected him. But Will isn't going to reject him now, no, not this time. It had been a mistake before. Now that Will has felt what it would be like if they had this, together, he can never go back. It felt too good, it felt _right_ , it felt like _home_.

“It's beautiful,” Will tells him, because it is. The feeling he has; the raw, cannibalistic feeling inside of him is beautiful. _Hannibal_ is beautiful, oh, he's so beautiful under the moonlight. And Will's eyes are finally open to it; he sees Hannibal under a new light, and he wants him. He aches for him. _I'm so sorry_ , he wants to say, _I'm so sorry I didn't know. I wish we could've had this sooner._

And Hannibal looks at him like Will is everything he has ever wanted, and more. He looks at him like he's a blind man seeing the world for the first time. He looks at Will like he's falling in love with him all over again. And maybe he is, maybe he is, and maybe Will wants to kiss him. They're close—closer than they've ever been—and Will can't take his half-lidded eyes off of Hannibal's lips. He's panting—they both are—heaving through corrupted lungs, raking in breaths as they struggle to stay on their feet. Hannibal watches him with adoration, a look of disbelief on his face, before it morphs to acceptance and adoration, and Will thinks, _I have to kiss him_.

And he does. He leans forward and captures Hannibal's open mouth with his own. It tastes like blood, sweat, wine and most of all, it tastes like _Hannibal._ It isn't rough, not like Will imagined—it's tender and gentle and intense and makes Will weaker and weaker at the knees. Hannibal's free arm wraps around Will's frail waist, his other pinned to his side by Will's shaking hand. Will's arm wraps around Hannibal's neck and he pushes his body against the other man's, aching to be closer, knowing that they are being watched. He doesn't care, not anymore. He wants them to know. They _have_ to know. The FBI have to know about them; it adds to the excitement. The thrill of being discovered.

Hannibal's tongue slides across Will's lips, and he willingly opens his mouth with a groan which evidently does something to Hannibal. The cannibal's arm tightens around Will's waist possessively. _You're mine_ , the gesture screams, and Will understands the sentiment. Hannibal tastes like cinnamon; spicy and sweet mingling together on Will's tongue and creating a concoction of sensations which travel through his body in waves. Nodes of citrus—acidic—perhaps Hannibal had been frightened, frightened that Will would leave him. No, not again. Will couldn't leave if he tried, and he doesn't want to.

“I love you,” Will says; it's out of his mouth before he realizes, but before he has a chance to regret it, Hannibal's eyes are glowing. Soft and gentle, yet somehow livid at the same time. Intense, obsessive, and everything Will wants. “I love you,” he repeats, because he can't help it. Their lips are still touching, ghosting over one another. His teeth are stained with blood. “Hannibal.”

“Will,” Hannibal responds, seemingly speechless. Will loves it, he loves the hold he has over Hannibal. _My compassion for you is inconvenient, Will._ A fancy way of admitting that Will is his weakness, his Achilles heel. Will is Hannibal Lecter's greatest weakness, but he is also his greatest strength. They are strongest together, and vulnerable when they are apart. Destined, star-crossed lovers, whatever the word for it is. Will doesn't care because Hannibal's voice sounds in his ears, and hot, wet breath is on his lips, “I love you, Will. I've loved you for quite some time.”

He can feel Hannibal maneuvering them, shifting them closer to the cliff's edge, and _of course_. Of course Hannibal thought about it, because Will had too. They could be together this way—the only way—by destroying themselves. Poetic, intimate, fitting, a tragedy—it is _them_ to a T.

It isn't about dying. No, that's not what it's about at all. If someone were to ask Will Graham; "Do you want to die?", the answer would still be no. It's about _living._ Will Graham wants to live, and he wants to live by Hannibal's side. But their current condition won't allow it—Will Graham is married, he has to kill Hannibal to be happy. He has constructed a life for himself where he has struggled to be normal, to act normal and live normally. He got a wife, a child, a job and a hobby. He collects dogs to feel normal. The meticulously created _Will Graham_ 's intent is to rid himself of his manipulative ex-psychiatrist. And what better way to kill Hannibal? By killing them both. It's poetic, intimate, and fitting. _Romantic._

Jack Crawford will arrive at the location and note the struggle, note the deceased body of Francis Dolarhyde, the infamous Red Dragon. And Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham will be gone, swept away by the tide, nothing but a memory for people to read about in The Tattler. Most importantly, people will believe the story. A tragic end to the Murder Husbands. Will Graham dying an honorable death, missed by no one but a grieving wife, and Hannibal Lecter finally—quite literally—disappearing off the edge of the earth.

They can be together this way—in _death_ —that they could not be in life. Their becoming. Theirs.

Hannibal falls first, Will's arm wrapped around his neck. They kiss as they fall and Hannibal clings to Will protectively, ready to take the brunt of the impact for him, and Will thinks, _I love you, I love you, I love you._ Because he does, he does, he loves Hannibal with the entirety of his mind and his body. He belongs to Hannibal, physically, mentally, metaphorically, in every sense of the word. He always has.

They hit the water and Will feels his limbs ache, his muscles go rigid, his mind beginning to panic. But Hannibal has him wrapped in his arms as they fall deeper and deeper into the depths of the freezing Atlantic, darkness surrounding them. Will finds peace in it, arms gripping onto the man in his arms, not daring to let go. He wades into the quiet of the current, letting the water obstruct his hearing, disabling him. It's peaceful, death; it isn't like people tell you. But not many people have the pleasure of dying in the arms of someone they love, of someone they're destined to die with. Will takes it as a blessing.

Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter die that night, whisked away by the violent waves of the Atlantic. Bodies are never recovered, possibly mutilated by the rocks at the bottom of the cliff, or so the Tattler says. The FBI reports would be more detailed, and accurate, but it doesn't matter. Because the Will Graham that died that night is gone, and Will no longer has to live a lie. He can finally be who he is, who he is meant to be, who Hannibal helped him become.

 

Will wakes on a soft mattress to a dark room, Hannibal laying by his side. The other man is leaning on his side, propped up on an elbow. His eyes open and they look at Will carefully. _Is this real?_ They ask, and Will nods once, then twice, then a third time before a startled laugh bubbles out of his chest. Because they are finally free, and they are finally _together._ Many nights he wakes to the same scenario; Hannibal awake beside him, watching him in disbelief. They share a kiss, long, passionate, and Will reminds him that this is real. He is real. They no longer have to hide.

Will Graham couldn't save himself, and that's just fine.

**Author's Note:**

> Art credit: [here](http://feredir.tumblr.com/post/127775146669/its-beautiful).
> 
> That finale was wild! I'm so pleased, but also I need more. A lot more. I need season 4. Thank you to those who helped us trend _Worldwide_ last night during the Hannibal season 3 finale using our special hashtag #HannibalMicDrop! You are all a gift to this fandom, and I adore you. I hope you enjoyed my piece.
> 
> If you haven't heard, there's a Fannibal Fanbook Project going around. This is a book made for Fannibals, by Fannibals which will be available to purchase! You can submit your art, fanfictions (+more) there. Here's the link to the blog if you are interested!: [here](http://fannibalfanbookproject.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Let's show NBC how strong we are. Let's survive them.


End file.
